


Idle

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock may be asexual, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got a libido, much as he may despise it. And that doesn't mean he's not interested in John's well-being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [at my LJ](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/30922.html) in August 2011.

            John tended to approach Sherlock’s room with no less than suspicious apprehension, and occasionally outright fear. He never knew what he was going to be faced with – he’d walked in on sheep dissections, noxious gases, an improvised sensory deprivation tank and, on one occasion that was memorable for all the wrong reasons, Sherlock, fully dressed and tied to his bed, trying to ask for assistance through the ball gag in his mouth. (Apparently he’d managed it all by himself; John was still trying to figure that one out.)

            Of all the things he’d walked in on, though, the sight that faced John one mild, breezy September evening still managed to make him do a double-take, then freeze, his mouth dangerously close to gaping and his eyebrows approaching his hair. Sherlock was laying on his bed, completely naked, the covers kicked down the mattress, one hand laid idly on his softening erection.

            “D’you want a hand with that?” John blurted, immediately regretting his words. They’d been over this – they could kiss and cuddle to their heart’s content, but John was not to approach Sherlock sexually unless given express permission. The ‘I’m asexual and I love you’ conversation had occurred almost a month ago, and John had so far been very strict with himself in regards to respecting the detective’s boundaries.

            Sherlock’s head rolled lazily on the pillow until his eyes locked with John’s, his gaze dripping with disdain.

_“Must_ you be so base?” he chided. John held in a sigh of relief – he was forgiven.

            “Just asking,” he shrugged, deadpan, regaining his composure, though he stepped no further into the room. “Would you like to explain…” He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely in Sherlock’s direction.

            “I was  _trying_ to masturbate,” said Sherlock darkly, as if it should have been obvious. “Asexual, as I have told you before, John, doesn’t necessarily mean a lack of libido. This arousal has been nagging at me for three days now, and it  _won’t go away.”_

            John smirked, but Sherlock either missed it (impossible), or chose to ignore it (improbable, but clearly the only feasible option). “So you resigned yourself to the  _pedestrian_ method of relief,” he said, lightly mocking, “rather than wait it out.”

            “Normally it goes away when I ignore it,” said Sherlock, sounding thoroughly disappointed in his body’s failure to comply. “It was becoming distracting.”

            “Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” said John, about to turn out of the room – the sight before him was becoming a bit much to handle, after all.

            “You weren’t  _interrupting,_ John,” Sherlock sighed. “I got bored almost three and a half minutes ago.”

            “You –” John blinked, frowned and tried again. “You got bored?”

            “It’s a tedious, repetitive and wholly uninteresting process,” Sherlock explained. “Why shouldn’t I get bored?”

            John didn’t bother to answer that, instead forcing himself to think of something  _other_ than the idea of making Sherlock a bit more  _interested_ in relieving his arousal. Admittedly, reality-Sherlock’s incredibly disinterested expression was making fantasy-Sherlock’s moans a little hard to believe. John cleared his throat. “Right. Well, I’ll just –”

            Sherlock sighed explosively. “Oh for God’s sake, John, just  _stay,”_ he said impatiently. “We both know you want to see this.” He smirked when John stayed put, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Just don’t expect me to unconsciously moan your name or something similarly cliché when I finish.”

            “Knew I was hoping for a bit much,” John quipped.

            The room was silent for a moment, neither man showing any sign of moving. Eventually, John broke the silence.

            “Sherlock?” he prompted, crossing his arms over his chest. The detective let out a small gasp, as if John had pulled him from a deep reverie.

            “Right, yes,” he rambled. “I was thinking about the contaminated blood samples in the freezer…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Maybe I should check on –”

_“The blood can wait, Sherlock,”_  said John firmly. Sherlock glanced at him, a smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth.

            “Impatient, are we, Doctor?” he said lightly. At John’s answering glare, he almost laughed. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

            With that, he shifted his hips slightly and started to stroke himself to full hardness, staring listlessly at the ceiling. His movements were slow and languorous, his hand moving with an idle lack of interest. John bit his tongue to hold back a gasp at the strangely erotic sight, but he couldn’t stop himself from swallowing compulsively, or licking his lips when Sherlock’s knee bent distantly. After only a few minutes, though, Sherlock’s hand stopped, coming to rest against his hip. He sighed just slightly, sounding interminably bored, though his fingertips still moved restlessly against his skin.

            “Problem?” John asked, his voice mostly level.

            “It’s so  _dull,”_  Sherlock complained. “I don’t know how people do this on a regular basis, let alone derive any  _pleasure_ from it.”

            “You don’t find it at  _all_ nice?” John asked, surprising himself with how genuinely curious he was.

            “Well, obviously there is some physical pleasure to be gained from orgasm,” Sherlock drawled, “but not so much that it makes me want to repeat the experiment. The entire process is a complete waste of time. It’s not  _worth_ it.”

            “Whereas sitting in front of the open freezer for hours on end just to test the particular effect on your fingertips  _is,”_  John returned, remembering coming home to a shivering, borderline-hypothermic consulting detective and how long it took to nurse him back to health after the ensuing cold.

            “That experiment has now helped me on two separate cases, John,” Sherlock argued. “So yes, it was worth it. At least my body didn’t shut off my brain just for a bit of carnal pleasure.”

            “A few more hours and your body  _would’ve_  shut down,” John replied –  _“permanently,_  knowing your default level of health.”

            Sherlock didn’t respond other than to exhale heavily through his nose and start stroking himself again, a bit harder this time, as if impatience had won out over disinterest. A moment later, John was glad the detective hadn’t formed a retort, because he wouldn’t have been able to respond to it at all coherently, and would more than likely have made a complete arse of himself. To be honest, though, the appearance of a very light blush along Sherlock’s cheekbones was a very good reason for incoherency in John’s book.

            Another few minutes passed in silence, Sherlock continuing to pull at his erection with languid indifference and John forcing himself not to touch himself through his jeans, though he was all too soon leaning against the doorframe for support, his heart rate increasing rapidly and his breath speeding up. After a while, Sherlock’s left hand swept, seemingly unconsciously, along his thigh and hip, rasping over his chest for a moment before coming to rest on his stomach. He broke into a sweat, his right hand speeding up and a faint noise that John could only describe as  _interest_ escaping his throat. The rest of his muscles tensed and his hips began to cant just slightly as he shifted more and more often on the mattress.

            Suddenly, John blurted out a question. “Would you, though?”

            Sherlock didn’t stop his self-ministrations, but they did slow, and he relaxed just slightly with the distraction. “Would I what?” he asked, his voice rougher than usual and just a little bit breathless.

            “Say my name,” John clarified on an exhale. Sherlock’s hand stopped, and John bit back a groan.

            “Just to fuel your sexual fantasies about me?” said Sherlock, and John licked his lips and nodded shamelessly. A shrewd smirk played at the detective’s mouth, but he didn’t answer except to return to working himself in earnest. It soon became clear that the physical sensations were beginning to overwhelm him – his heels started digging into the mattress, and his back arched minutely. The very softest of moans slipped through his teeth on the occasional exhale. His eyes closed and the fingers of his free hand darted out to snatch at the sheets.

            John was no longer bothering to hide his arousal. His hair was already becoming damp with sweat, and his breath was coming too fast, along with his tripping heartbeat. He cupped himself through his jeans, his other hand twisting in his stifling jumper as he swallowed a moan.

            Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock’s hips stuttered and his eyes flew open. He threw back his head and gasped sharply, as if all the breath had been driven from his body – and on the next exhale, as he finished over his stomach, came one, breathy word:  _“John.”_

            It was pointless for John to even  _try_ to hold back the faint whimper that slid from his throat at that, as he pressed his palm against his growing erection and leaned yet more heavily against the doorframe. Across the room, Sherlock was coming down from his orgasm, relaxing back into the mattress, his fingers running restlessly against the crease of his hip and groin. He wasn’t quite panting, but he was definitely breathing more heavily than usual.

            The illusion, though, of a sex-sated Sherlock, was quickly shattered. He glared distastefully down his body at the mess it had made and half-rolled his eyes in irritated exasperation, reaching for a box of tissues in the drawer of his nightstand. John closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose in an attempt to compose himself enough to take his own problems upstairs, and as such, he missed the calculating glance that Sherlock threw him, and the almost fond smile that appeared in the corner of his mouth.

            “Come here.”

            John’s eyes flew open, his thin lips parting just slightly. When he spoke, his voice was nonexistent, just a word coming out on a breath.  _“What?”_

            Sherlock’s mouth widened into a smirk, and he glanced pointedly at the front of John’s jeans. “Do you want a hand with that?”

            And  _God,_  but John couldn’t possibly say no to that. His feet were already carrying him to Sherlock’s bed when he asked, “You said you didn’t want me to –”

            “If an outright invitation doesn’t count as permission, I don’t know what does,” Sherlock interrupted, rising to meet John and strip off his jumper before bringing their mouths together in a kiss so sloppy it made his nose wrinkle.

            “John, do you have to –”

_“Don’t_  ask me for finesse, Sherlock,” John snapped, staring in wonder and running his hands over Sherlock’s bare chest. “This is possibly the most erotic experience of my entire adult life, I refuse to take it gracefully.”

            Sherlock snorted, helping John out of his shirt. “Hardly,” he drawled, though he sounded quite pleased with himself. “It’s just a handjob.”

            “Yeah, from  _you,”_  John countered, darting in for another kiss, his arms looping around Sherlock’s neck. “You obviously don’t realise how much that counts for.”

            “Obviously,” Sherlock repeated with a smirk, his hands moving down to John’s waistband. They stopped, however, at the button of his jeans, hesitating for just a moment.

            “Oh, fucking hell,” John breathed, “why are you stopping?”

            “John, I –” Sherlock leaned closer, lowering his voice, his hands spreading around John’s hips. “I can’t promise this will be any good,” he admitted. “I don’t – really have much experience.”

            “Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, you could give me the worst handjob in the history of mankind and it’d still be amazing,” John snapped. “It’s  _you,_ and I _love_ you,is that so hard to comprehend?”

            Chuckling, Sherlock kissed him again and undid the button and zip of his trousers before stepping back. As he dropped onto the mattress, John struggled out of the remainder of his clothes and practically launched himself at the bed, toppling Sherlock over backwards and sending them both into fits of giggles. John rolled on top of Sherlock, bracing himself on his elbows and, to Sherlock’s bewildered amusement, kissing a messy trail from his mouth to the centre of his chest.

            “All right, how are we doing this?” he asked breathily, mouthing his way back up to Sherlock’s shoulder.

            “On your back,” said Sherlock. They shifted about for a moment until John was laying back against the pillows with Sherlock straddling his thighs. “Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” he said, finally taking John in hand and stroking him gently; judging by John’s groan, he was doing rather well for a first attempt.

            “Bit – bit harder,” John gasped. Sherlock complied. “Just –” He brought his left hand down onto Sherlock’s right, adjusting their combined technique until he was moaning with pleasure. When he let go, his fingers instead running shakily along Sherlock’s thighs and arms, the detective shifted over him, adapting to his own lonely rhythm and leaning forward just slightly.

            “You like it very slow, don’t you?” Sherlock asked curiously. John glared at him with half-lidded eyes.

            “You’d better not be criticising my sexual preferences, Sherlock, or I swear to God –”

            Sherlock bent over, silencing him with a kiss. “Just an observation,” he murmured, millimetres from John’s lips.

            His hand still moving steadily, Sherlock began setting a line of soft kisses along John’s mouth and cheek. The doctor half-heartedly tried returning them, but he was too caught up in the inventive twist of Sherlock’s wrist to be able the pay the action much attention. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the heat of Sherlock’s mouth as he moved over his jaw and along his neck, returning occasionally to suck gently at the skin just below his chin as he craned his neck, exposing himself and pulling away all at once.

            “Oh fuck,” John whispered suddenly, chest heaving and hips rolling. “Oh, _fuck,_ Sherlock –” His left hand, still on Sherlock’s thigh, tightened suddenly while his right darted up to grip at the base of Sherlock’s skull. He pressed their mouths together, breathing harshly, before crying out sharply, his head thrown back and his entire body stiffening. His toes curled ecstatically, and his fingers trembled as they remained clutched in a tangle of dark curls. Sherlock’s name escaped from his lips again, breathy and missing a number of letters, his eyes closed in orgasmic bliss.

            Sherlock stroked him through his release and didn’t stop, only relaxing his grip slightly and slowing the pace, until John groaned and flapped his hands ineffectually at Sherlock’s arms.

            “Stop-stop-stop-stop- _stop –”_  he moaned, his heels digging into the mattress and his hips twisting futilely, trying to get away from Sherlock’s touch. The detective smirked as he pulled away and rolled to one side, reaching for the tissues.

            “Good?” he asked simply, turning back over and cleaning them both off as best he could.

_“Fucking hell,”_  John sighed, finally opening his eyes and staring at Sherlock. “No, it was terrible,” he said, the sarcasm not particularly well-hidden. “That’s why I’m in this state. This completely disappointed, not-at-all-satisfied state. Oh,  _fuck.”_  His head dropped back onto the pillow and he tugged Sherlock over to kiss him again, deeply and with a touch more grace than before. Sherlock smiled.

            “Sorry about that,” he murmured against John’s lips. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

            John pulled away, wide-eyed. “There’s a ‘next time’?” he said, sounding rather dumbfounded.

            “Well, yes.” The ‘obviously’ was implied. “If you want,” came the quick amendment. “Nothing without your consent, of course.”

            John’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

            “I think it worked out all right.” Sherlock smiled, but smothered it quickly and launched into a contemplative tone. “You know, I’ve never been interested in sex,” he said, settling back into the mattress and half-draping himself over John. “All of a sudden, though, I find myself very much interested in making you happy. I’m obviously not going to become a sexual expert overnight, and there are some things I won’t do – but if you’re willing to teach me what you like, I’d be more than willing to learn.”

            John just grinned, and kissed him hard.

            “God I love you,” he whispered.

            “Mutual,” was the quiet reply.


End file.
